


Jellylorum

by Byacolate



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen, Just Add Kittens, Kittens, Nonbinary Character, or A Kitten Adopts Demoman, or Demo is a Paranoid Bastard and it Still Does Him Little Good, or These Are the Least Qualified Men to Nurture Baby Animals and Yet Here We Are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:38:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1930434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt from the tf2promptfest: "Demoman adopts a kitten."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jellylorum

**Author's Note:**

> I can't remember the last time I was so fiercely inclined to write gen. Apparently all it takes is Demoman and kittens.

He’s pretty sure he’s hallucinating. 

 

It wouldn’t be the first time; a heavy cocktail of Saxton Hale Pain Tonic and Irish poitín would sooner kill him than cure what ails him, and it certainly does give over to several lurid mental side effects. 

 

But he hasn’t had a drink since last night, and his mind hasn’t played any tricks on him since his last respawn, so maybe he isn’t seeing things at all. Maybe there really is a wee head poking out from under the concrete bridge where Demo’s taking his lunch. 

 

At first (upon deciding definitively that his mind isn’t making up random furry blobs where there are none), he figures it’s the enemy Spy. And why not? He’s got the resources, probably, and the inclination to do something as bizarre and underhanded as invading their territory as a deceptively adorable creature. So he lays his grenade launcher conspicuously over his lap and takes a great bite out of his sandwich. 

 

The potential Spy doesn’t even look at him. It crawls over the ground and inspects one rock, and then another. Disappears behind a boulder as it treks up the hill and doesn’t reappear until it’s managed to scramble on top. 

 

“You look a right edjit,” Demo informs Maybe-Spy, and only then does it turn to look at him. It spends a good five seconds looking surprised and cautious before it catches sight of the moss growing on the other side of the boulder, which is apparently leagues more interesting than Demo.

 

When it successfully pounces on and manages to eat a grasshopper, Demo starts to think that maybe, possibly the enemy Spy is taking this charade a little too far. 

 

That, or there’s actually a wee little black kitten wandering the Gorge battlegrounds. But that just can’t be right - he can’t remember the last time he’s seen any living creature smaller than Miss Pauling on Saxton Hale property before. Didn’t know if that was because what was undoubtedly a frightening amount of radiation and noise pollution emanating from their miniature war zones, or because animal instinct is far wiser than any of their lot happens to be, but the fact of the matter remains that he hasn’t seen so much as a scavenger bird flying overhead in a desert base full of corpse bits, much less a housecattish stray. 

 

“Numpty of a spy you are,” he says, shaking the heel of his sandwich at the kitten-shaped anomaly. “We’ve got half an hour before the gates open for the next round, and on top o’ that, you’re miles away from the nearest control point. Weren’t you paying attention this morning?”

 

It’s staring at him now. And it continues to stare, ears pricked, through a minute more of Demo’s scorn before it edges over the side of the boulder. 

 

When it’s out of sight, he hears it. A faint little meeping cry, followed by two more, and then it’s toddling up onto the concrete bridge with purpose. Demo pats his launcher again, but the ball of fur doesn’t falter for a second - not until it’s five feet from Demo’s side and suddenly regained a sense of wariness.

 

“What?” he barks, narrowing his eye. It blinks up at him with big green eyes before its gaze flickers down to the sandwich in his hand. “Fuck off, ye’ve got your own base.”

 

It mewls. Indignantly, if he’s not mistaken. He’d judge that as proof right there that the tiny bastard is Spy in disguise, except he’s no stranger to cats; he well knows that indignation is one of their more common moods. Still. “You just had a nice, lovely grasshopper, didn’t ye?” It sits on its haunches and blinks. Meeps again. Stands up and inches closer. 

 

Demo only gives it the rest of his ham. And the turkey. And, after skittering away twice when Demo extends his hand, lets it lap at his fingers. “A’righ’, if you’re Spy, you should know that I cannae think of a way this situation could be any fuckin' barmier,” he tells it when it steels itself for the fingers scratching away behind its ears. But it only takes a few seconds for its downy black head to nudge at the palm of his hand, arching under his touch as he strokes along its spine. 

 

And then he’s realizing that their lunch-and-restock hour is nearly finished and he really should be getting back inside to to clean and oil his weapons to prepare for their next mission. “Away with ye,” he shoos, standing, shouldering his weapon, and sidestepping what could very possibly be an actual kitten. He doesn’t look back until he’s at the door to their base, and rolls his eye when he sees it padding along after him. “Get! And for god’s sake, hide yer tail. We’re the only ones here who _really_ have nine lives.”

 

It meeps at his feet. 

 

Demo does not pick it up and take it into the base. In fact, he very deliberately walks inside and nudges the kitten out with his foot when it tries to follow, shutting the door to keep it out. And he manages to walk six paces toward the restock room before he’s cursing under his breath and turning on his heel. 

 

He’s well aware of Heavy and Medic’s stares as he retreats to the kitchen with an armful of mewling more-than-gun, grabbing a great hunk of ham and a bowl. 

 

And when Pyro cocks their head to the side in the bunker, Demo insists that it’s only temporary as he sets the kitten on his bunk with the ham and a single-minded determination to make the bloody thing eat its fill. 

 

He fends off Scout’s grabby hands and nearly breaks a bottle over the lad’s head when he starts going on about _always wanting a pet_ because god damn him but he’s only just managed to keep Soldier from naming it - her - Star Spangled Bludgeoning; the very last thing they need to do is give her a name, to get attached, when they’re definitely not keeping her. And even if they were, it wouldn’t be _that_. 

 

It won’t be anything at all, if he has anything to say about it. 

 

(But on the battlefield when he hears a powerful sneeze and a curse behind him, and he whirls around to blast a hole through the enemy Spy’s chest and watches him fall with a look of shock on his face, gurgling, "Cat... hair...?" it’s the sweetest irony he could’ve ever imagined.

 

Maybe they'll keep her after all.)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _The Naming of Cats_ , by T.S. Eliot. If you only read one poem in your life, please make it that one.
> 
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://byacolate.tumblr.com/).


End file.
